At Bay

Traveling through the underground

The road well travelled

My headphones keeps

The world at bay

This awful day

Revenge

To forgive is not easily done

Memories comes back

The perpetrator well off rich

Do not regret but celebrate

His act still after thirty years

The memory remains

An open wound

I don’t love, I do not hate

I realize that

I will not make it

I messed it up

I do not seek to forgive

I do not seek forgiveness

Anymore, just strength

To make it through

The day

Crowds

The crowds of the city

Has left their dwellings

Moving around in

Disciplined groups

Up and down,

Round and round

Bumping into each other

Fighting for space

Life is slow,

Everything seems to be

Permanent

Locked in rigid patterns of

Existence

Illusions are fine

They are like wine

You drink and enjoy until you

Wake up with an headache

Realising that most of your

Life was a dream

Wasted on the altar

Of ideas and dreams

 

The Subway Ride

Crowds moving quickly

Through the metro

Up and down the stairs

Like streams of water

They collide and mix

Creating small instant conflicts

On their way to anywhere

Or somewhere under the

Aggressive white light

That shines eternally

Treating each other as objects

And problems, hinders for

Quick movements, enemies

To be battered, promising

That we will never have

Peace of mind

Blame

I cannot blame

Anyone but myself

And here I am

Desperate to change

Without being able

To change at all

Caught between

Different ideological fantasis

Of what life should be like

And how to solve it’s vice and evils

No, they have no realistic solutions

And neither do I

Waiting for the Great Destruction

Tepid days

Slow moving

Grayness rules

My world of lost

Hope and courage

Nothing to hope for

Just an eternal wait for

Spring and new options

That might never come

Soon the destruction of

Nature will overtake and

Change the nature of this

Place

Only organised

People will live here

Paying a lot of money

For being unhappy

But successful

The world will erase

Their memory

Boring War

War is a boring thing

Filled with waiting

And cold evenings

Without light and

Heating

Waiting, smoking,

Talking and drinking

Whatever found

On the black market

Money always scarce

A few get rich,

Most people get poor

Everyone would leave

If they only found the

Door

But the war wears on and on

Through rain and sun, storm

and snow people dying all

The time when life could

Be must more benign